Lamentations / Mark Mosley
Coming home from the grave
to enter that impossible door.
The ritual of her faith:
to kiss the beam
as if wood held blood
as death passed over.
Walking an empty room,
eyes half-closed in exile,
the desiccation of grief.
Her hands have folded.
At the table, the cup untouched.
Thought as smoke vanishes.
Pulling the lace head covering
down slowly like wings torn,
and held tightly to her lap.
What she can no longer
bear to hear, the sorrow
in the sounds of her Son.
But in her heart,
there is a word
rising from that cave.
A birth of His breath
unbroken by death
“Behold thy mother.”
Lamentations: Copyright 2022 by Mark Mosley. All rights reserved.
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